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The clock read about 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I headed back home in Gaza City. The wind howled, making it impossible to remain any longer, so I had to walk. In the beginning, it was only a light drizzle, but a short distance later the rain suddenly grew heavier. This was expected. I stopped near a tent, rubbing my palms together to generate a little heat. A young boy sat nearby selling baked goods. We exchanged a few words as I waited, but his attention was elsewhere. I noticed the cookies were poorly packaged in plastic, already soggy from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d have enough to sell before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Journey Through a Place of Tents

As I walked along al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, canvas structures flanked both sides of the road. There were no voices from inside them, just the noise of torrential rain and the roar of the wind. As I hurried on, attempting to avoid the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to illuminate the path. My mind continually drifted to those huddled within: What occupies them now? What is their state of mind? What emotions do they hold? A severe chill gripped the air. I envisioned children curled under damp covers, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.

Upon opening the door to my apartment, the freezing handle served as a quiet but powerful reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these severe cold season. I stepped inside my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of having a roof when countless others faced exposure to the storm.

The Darkness Escalates

As midnight passed, the storm grew stronger. Outside, makeshift covers on shattered windows billowed and tore, while corrugated metal broke away and crashed to the ground. Above it all came the piercing, fearful cries of children, piercing the darkness. I felt totally incapable.

During recent days, the rain has been relentless. Chilly, dense, and propelled by strong winds, it has soaked tents, flooded makeshift camps and turned open ground into mud. In different contexts, this might be called “bad weather”. In Gaza, it is endured in a state of exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Residents refer to this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the most bitter forty days of winter, beginning in late December and persisting to the end of January. It is the real onset of winter, the moment when the season reveals its full force. Ordinarily, it is weathered through preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has neither. The cold bites through homes, streets are vacant and people simply endure.

But the peril of the season is no longer abstract. Early on the Sunday before Christmas, civil defense teams retrieved the remains of two children after the roof of a war-damaged building collapsed in northern Gaza, saving five more people, including a child and two women. Two people are still unaccounted for. These incidents are not new attacks, but the consequence of homes damaged from months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. Earlier this month, a young child in Khan Younis succumbed to exposure to the cold.

A Life in Tents

Walking past the camp nearest my home, I witnessed the impact up close. Flimsy tarpaulins sagged under the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes hung damply, incapable of drying. Each step reinforced how precarious these dwellings are and how close the rain and cold threatened life and health for hundreds of thousands living in tents and cramped refuges.

Most of these people have already been forced from their homes, many repeatedly. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods flattened. Winter has come to Gaza, but shelter from its fury has not. It has come lacking adequate housing, with no power, without heating.

The Weight on Education

Being an educator in Gaza, this weather causes deep concern. My students are not mere statistics; they are young people I speak to; intelligent, determined, but profoundly exhausted. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from cramped quarters where privacy is impossible and connectivity sporadic. Countless learners have already suffered personal loss. Most have lost their homes. Yet they persist in learning. Their perseverance is astounding, but it must not be demanded in this way.

In Gaza, what would normally count as routine academic practices—projects, due dates—transform into ethical dilemmas, influenced daily by concern for students’ security, heat and ability to find refuge.

When the storm rages, I find myself thinking about them. Are they dry? Are they warm? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those still living in apartments, or the shells that are left, there is no heating. With electricity scarce and fuel in short supply, warmth comes mostly via bundling up and using the few bedding items available. Nonetheless, cold nights are intolerable. What, then those living in tents?

Political Failure

Agencies state that more than a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Humanitarian assistance, including thermal blankets, have been insufficient. When the cyclone hit, aid organizations reported providing tarpaulins, tents and bedding to thousands of families. In reality, however, this assistance was often perceived as inconsistent and lacking, limited to short-term fixes that did little against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are on the upswing.

This cannot be described as an unforeseen disaster. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza view this crisis not as misfortune, but as abandonment. People speak of how critical supplies are restricted or delayed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are frequently blocked. Community efforts have tried to improvise, to distribute plastic sheeting, yet they remain limited by restrictions on imports. The culpability lies in political and humanitarian. Solutions exist, but are kept out.

An Unnecessary Pain

The aspect that renders this pain especially agonizing is how preventable it is. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or combat disease standing surrounded by cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain destroying their final textbook. Rain lays bare just how vulnerable survival is. It strains physiques worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

This winter coincides with the Christmas season that, for millions, represents warmth, refuge and care for the disadvantaged. In Palestine, that {symbolism